


I'll Be Around

by intodust



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Attempted Murder, F/M, Sexual Tension, morals are tested and what not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-05-16 09:49:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14809001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intodust/pseuds/intodust
Summary: You're trapped in an impossible situation with an even more impossible man.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You all know I'm not good at summaries. Just read it.

You cherished the icy glass of water being held firmly in your grasp, a harsh contrast to your feverish palms which clenched the glacial cup even tighter, hoping that to some degree its chill would travel through your body. The sensation of coldness wandering down your throat to your stomach refreshed you, you could almost forget about the clamminess of your hands and droplets of sweat cascading down the sides of your face. You press the glass against your forehead after taking another gulp, sighing in relief. This heat was indomitable, both outside and in. The prick took dozens of things when he moved out, your lamp is one of them, but this proved to be the most necessary and unforgivable item. The goddamn air conditioner. You rolled the glass down your forehead to your cheek, then down your throat, letting the cold of it bring you some kind of peace.

You closed your eyes and leaned back against the refrigerator. Even in your flimsy black bralette and tiny silk pajama shorts, you struggled to cool yourself down from the unforgiving heat wave. You stayed in that position for as long as you could before the glass started becoming room temperature, contemplating pressing issues in your mind like who you'd have to kill to get an air conditioner for a cheap price. Groaning, you set your cup down on the counter and turn around to the kitchen table. You plan on walking out and trying to fall asleep again, but you pause in your movements and stare straight ahead into the darkness.

Something wasn't right.

Your heart unintentionally quicked in pace, pounding, thudding, crashing against your chest. You look around, slowly, but frantic. The shadows were off around the table, so you squint in a haunting suspicion, pushing yourself to recognize something that wasn't there. You wanted to believe that the heat was making you insane and continue back to bed, but you couldn't. You know what you saw.

Swiftly, you turn back to the counter, scavaging the drawers for your knife collection only to find nothing there. You open two drawers at once, hunting for something, anything to protect you.

You're pushed forward into the counter before you could open another drawer and you cry against the impact. The body behind yours is hulking and firm, adding just enough pressure so that you couldn't get out of the imprisonment. You wriggle and kick and scream, but the loud ' _click_ ' of a gun safety switching off forces you to clench your lips together.

"I'm impressed." The voice mutters. His voice is low and husky, just an octave deep enough to chill you in a way that the poor glass of water never could. "Most people don't notice me until it's too late." His tone turns gruff and unhinged, and it brings an unexpected slew of tears to your eyes, misting your already compromised vision. You feel his haughty laughter through the vibrations in his chest, it shakes you, gives you goosebumps. Your panting is uncontrollable at this point, taking over your movements, and almost sending you into a panic attack. He notices your difficulty and pushes his hand in front of you. It's covered by black leather gloves, but he's obviously holding up a number. "Count my fingers." He orders.

You have to take several deep breaths before even thinking of his bizarre demand. He wiggles his fingers.

"Tell me how many."

You blink your tears away, then zero in on his gloved hand. "Five," you stutter out. He folds his thumb back. "Four," you continue on, feeling your breathing starting to even out. He kept this going until you weren't heaving any longer and he was down to his index finger. "One," you whisper, then squeeze your eyes shut, expecting to be shot and killed.

"Good." He rumbles. His praise gives you a sliver of hope. You can feel his breath beside your face, ticking your neck. "I'm not here to kill you," he assures. "But I will. If you don't tell me what the fuck I need to know."

You nod in understanding, still shocked that this was happening to you. His hand slithers from the counter to your stomach. He presses his palm flat against your bare abdomen which is slick with a light layer of sweat. You inhale deeply at his commanding touch, shivering as his grip on you becomes sharper, twisting around your waist. He's turning you around to face him and you have no choice but to comply. You shift one-eighty degrees right and meet with his chest instead of his face. It's large, even in the confinement of his tactical gear, what looked to be a metal vest wrapped around him. Your eyes adjusted poorly to the change of position, though you could make out the long sleeved black shirt under his armor from the very minimal support of street lights from your windows. Slowly, you look up to his face, scanning past the thick mass of stubble around his mouth and landing surely on his eyes. Eyes that you couldn't forget.

"Killmonger." You whisper.

He bares his golden fangs at you. They shine even through the darkness.

"You remember me." He says, matter-of-fact.

"You're hard to forget." You say too quickly. You meant it as a jab at his general creepiness, but the look on his face suggested that he interpreted it as a compliment. A hint of a smirk appears on his face.

"Then you know why I'm here." He says. You shake your head, hoping that maybe just this once playing dumb would work out in your favor. He leans down to the side of your face, stopping to where his lips could meet your ear. His breath against you makes you shiver even further and slightly cower into yourself. "Don't fucking play with me." He whispers, minty breath fanning over your neck as he said so. It irritated you that his breath smelled so wonderful, bad guys weren't supposed to smell so good.

He was too close to you and in your mind, you took that as an opportunity. It took, maybe, a ten-second sprint to get to the front door from the kitchen. You had the home-field advantage, you doubt he knows how to accurately navigate your home in almost complete darkness.

Your head smashes into his before he could say another word. He's caught off-guard, stumbling back a few paces wide enough to allow you to start moving. You try sprinting to the door, but you're being held back before you could even pass the refrigerator, strong arms wrapping around your mid-section and hauling you back to the counter. You fight listlessly against him, kicking and screaming, but he holds you like a rag-doll - and treats you as such. He tosses you back to your spot and your lower back hits the edge of the counter painfully.

"That was cute," He laughs. "And stupid."

"Fuck you." You spit out despite a headache thumping bitterly through your injured forehead. Movies make headbutts look far too easy.

"Where is he, [Y/N]?"

You should've known that this day would come, but you were only expecting it while you were still in a relationship. Now that your love life is down the drain, this interrogation thing shouldn't be your problem. You couldn't speak for your ex-boyfriend, but you cut all ties and affiliations with all of your past lovers once everything is said and done.

Killmonger's eyes cut through you like glass, just as haunting and deranged as you remembered. You've only seen him twice. Once, in passing, as he was exiting your home. You had eyed him warily then, wondering how your boyfriend even knew someone as rough looking as him. You'd fleshed him out from head to toe and glared as he walked a little too close to you. His gaze had never left yours, not even to blink, staring you down just as intensely as you did him. You both never lost contact even as he passed you up, causing you to turn around and follow his shady eyes all the way to his car. He smirked at you before taking off at a dangerous speed.

You'd asked your boyfriend who he was once you got inside. You remembered the name because it was so outlandish and horrifying. He didn't tell you any more details, no matter how much you begged for it. You just hoped you'd never have to see him again. And then, two weeks later, you did.

You'd spotted him at a dive bar you'd entered out of pure need for a hard drink. You had already ordered your drink before you saw him, sitting in a booth around some bad looking men, so you couldn't immediately get up and leave. You tried to hide through your braids, pushing them in front of your face in a makeshift disguise, but he'd still noticed you.

It felt like the longest drink you've ever had to consume in your life with his watchful eyes glued to you as you downed it. You stood from your chair and headed for the door, unknowing that he was following you the entire time. It was only when you were already one block away from the sketchy establishment did you turn to look behind you. You'd yelped in surprise as he pushed you against the brick of some building beside you.

"How's ya boy?" He asked casually as if he didn't have you cornered on an empty street. You weren't in the mood. You pulled the butterfly knife you'd been hiding from your purse and flicked it open. His eyes widened, but he looked amused.

"Keep your fucking hands off me."

"Cute lil knife." He said. It was. You'd gotten it personally customized, making the stainless steel blade a deep gold and the handle onyx black. "I like your style."

"What do you want?" You asked.

"Just thought you could deliver a lil message for me."

"A message that your phone couldn't send, apparently." You replied.

"Tell ya boy that he's got three months." He ordered, then looked you up and down. You had on black shorts and a band tee, hardly anything to feel exposed over, but his eyes burning on your skin made you want to cover yourself in layers. "You should hurry and get home. It can get dangerous at this time of night." He smiled at you, wide enough to see the gold accents in his teeth. You had kept your eyes on him as you walked away from his still position. You high-tailed it home to your boyfriend and told him everything. He told you not to worry. He said that you wouldn't have to see Killmonger ever again because he'd 'take care of it'.

_Yet, here you are._

"We broke up," You disclose, hoping that it would clear this situation up. "I don't keep tabs on him."

He sneers at you. "Don't matter. Start thinking." He orders. "You're my last stop of the night. And I'm not feeling too generous, baby girl." As he says so, he pulls his handgun back out from his belt and holds it to your neck. The barrel digs into your skin, the cool metal shocking you into complete stillness. In a morbid way, you're relieved by the coldness on your skin because at least you could go out with some relief.

"One of the reasons we broke up was because he _never_ told me where he was really sneaking off to every other day. So, even if I did start naming places, I'd be dead wrong."

"Poor choice of words." He cocks his gun and aims it back at you.

"Okay, wait, wait, _wait_!" In your frantic rush to stop him, your hands stumble onto his chest, gripping. He glances down at your hands on him then up to your eyes again. "I'll help you find him. I will. Please." You plead with him. His eyes go back down to his chest, where you foolishly realize your hands remain. You pull away from him, embarrassed and distressed. You couldn't distinguish a blush on your face from the general heat making you flush out, but either way, you were filled with a searing fever on your face. Something akin to a smirk sneaks its way to his face, it's something that makes your stomach twist and turns.

His gun lowers. "How you gonna do that?" He asks, speaking slower like he was addressing a child. "You don't know anything. Why should I keep you around?"

"I was his girlfriend! I could try to...get in touch with him again, act like I want to get back together or something. He's an idiot, he'll fall for it, I promise." You try and persuade him. He nods.

"Then get to it." He commands. You hesitate, confused as to if you were supposed to leave him or direct him. He must see the dilemma in your eyes because he steps away from you, just enough so that you were finally free to move as you pleased. You take one step forward and he does the same. He follows you around your kitchen, behind you like a shadow as you make your way into the hallway, his boots stomping imposingly against your tiled floors while your bare feet pattered lightly. His gaze on you, though you couldn't see it, made all the hairs on your neck stand. You stop in front of the master bedroom. Your bedroom. You turn to him and chew on your lip.

"My phone is on my bed." You state. The gut-wrenching feeling that you were going to enter your dark bedroom with a mysterious murderer overtook your thoughts.

"Get it."

"I'm not going in my bedroom with a stranger. Either you let me go in and get it or you can get it yourself." You say rather boldly. He's already laughing at you, such a rich sound that suggested that you genuinely amused him. You stick to your ground, though. Once he calms down, he's looking you from head to toe, as if only now noticing your half-naked state. Your arms twitch up nervously and cross around yourself, suddenly self-conscious now that it was clear that his eyes were attached to your body.

"I can have you any time I want. Anywhere. I don't give a damn about your bed. I'd fuck you on that kitchen table. I'd fuck you on that counter," He moves closer, pushing you back into the wall beside your door. You inhale sharply. "I'll fuck you right here in this hallway, baby girl." His hand wraps around your neck as he leans down to you. "Stop fucking playing with me." He growls. His words cut through you and hit your gut, granting you a strong and unexpected shock of pleasure mixed in with your fear. You gulp. It's a sick thought, a sick revelation, a sick reaction that you have right then and there with his hand around your throat. He's terrifying, sure, but your eyes linger around his lips for a second too long. You scold yourself and pass off the dampness in your underwear as a moment of insanity.

He pushes himself away. You gather your breath again, nodding at him before high-tailing it into your bedroom.

Everything was just as you left it. The bed was a mess, the sheets and covers falling helplessly off on the sides from your kicking it off while you were sleeping. You disregarded the mess and moved right in for your phone which was lying in the middle of your mattress. Wasting no time, you unlock your screen and go into your contacts. He gave you an emergency number when you first started dating and you didn't think it would ever get much use. You press the call button and turn around to Killmonger.

The phone rings three times before anything happens, and it's the tensest time you've ever waited for someone to pick up their phone. The shrill ringing noise feels louder than it should, blaring at such a volume in the otherwise quiet home, adding to the tension already bubbling between you and Killmonger. He keeps his eyes on you as the phone chimes and with every second that your ex-boyfriend doesn't pick up, you grow tenser than before.

"I don't...this doesn't usually...he _always_ picks up when I call, and that's not an exaggeration, he's been trying to get back together with me for weeks. I swear, I thought...I don't --" you babble helplessly, but Killmonger shushes you. You fall silent, fiddling with your phone as he trails into his thoughts.

"Someone must've tipped him off." He groans like he already knows who 'someone' is.

"So. Is that it?" You ask, nervously. "I helped you as much as I could. I did what you asked. Now, you'll leave and follow another lead?"

You anxiously bite your lip while awaiting his answer. He looks angrier than you've ever seen him, nostrils flaring and shoulders tensed. You're too scared to make any sudden movements, for fear that he'll break through his stupor and pounce.

"How could you date that nigga? Knowing what he does..." The low timbre of his voice has your stomach in knots. "You seem like a smart girl. Look at the position you're in now. Because of him."

You swallow. "I didn't know about the things that could put him in danger."

"Bullshit. You take boxing lessons _and_ you train with a customized balisong butterfly knife. You're prepared for the worst. You didn't wanna believe it, but you knew on _some_ level that he was doing wrong and you stayed with him."

"Are you seriously criticizing me for something I had no involvement in?"

"No. I'm more curious as to why you stayed with him for so long." He stalks towards you as he says so. You cross your arms over your chest and blink up at him.

He's directly in front of you now, once again invading your personal space for some weird power play.

"Nigga, I don't see how that's any of your business." You snap at him. The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, revealing a cute little dimple in his right cheek that you hadn't noticed before. Your heart beats faster.

"See, that's that shit right there. A regular hitman would've murked you for that attitude alone. But I like you. That's why you still breathing." He says lowly. Your ears zero in on his praise of you and it makes your stomach kind of flutter in a destructive way. This man was ready to put a bullet in you ten minutes ago and you have the audacity to enjoy what he says? You chalk it up to not having male attention in a long while.

"Is that what you are? A hitman? Someone's lackey?" You ask, genuinely curious. If he wasn't going to kill you yet, the least you can do is get some information on him.

"Watch that mouth, baby girl. I don't work for nobody but myself." He corrects you swiftly looking extremely proud of himself. You feel his fingertips running along your collarbone, pushing the hair out of his way as he gently caressed you. "I don't take orders, I give orders."

You gulp. You could already feel your body starting to betray your mind which was screaming that you should try to make another run for it. "I thought you were gonna leave." You whisper.

He gives you a look. "You know what I gotta do if I leave," his fingers trail up the side of your neck, then across your jawline. "I can't trust that you won't run to the feds." Your eyes instantly fall to the loaded gun attached to his waist, then back up.

You shake your head. "I do some dumb shit sometimes, but that's just...c'mon, I wouldn't do that." You assure as he continues his feathered touch path around your face.

"It's not like I'll be around to keep tabs on you. I mean, damn," he pauses to chuckle, dropping his hand back to your shoulder. "Look at how fast you sold out ya boy. Sorry, baby, but I can't trust you. You did help me out, though."

Your hand reaches to his on your shoulder, another unintentional touch, but this time you don't let go. Your eyes find him and you hold onto his umber brown gaze as crazy thoughts drift in and out of your brain. But what do you have to lose at this point? Your life? That's gone. It was gone the moment you recognized him, the moment his moniker name slipped through your mouth.

He had you.

He might as well have you.

"I could be around." You whisper. He stares you down for a few seconds, allowing the silence to put you in a chokehold as you await his response. Killmonger's other hand reaches up to cup the back of your neck and he leans further into you. You exhale softly, trying to steady the rapid pace of your heart.

"Yeah? You wanna be around me?" He asks sounding so raspy that it makes you the slightest bit wet. His head is leaning down to yours, inches away from your face.

"Yes. I could...I could still help you."

You feel so much smaller than before, standing before him, begging to be spared.

"You just 'gon drop everything...and help me kill your man?" Your eyes widen at the word kill. Killmonger doesn't allow you to stay shocked for long. "That's what you're signing up for." He clarifies. And you knew that, but it didn't feel real until he said the words.

If becoming this maniac's protegee and killing your ex is the only way to stay alive...

"Yes."

He smiles wide, a special kind of gleam in his eyes as he regards you.

"I knew I liked you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killmonger has to make a stop.

You put on a brave front for your lunatic hitman, one that you were positive he could see right through, but it was there nevertheless. You had stood your ground, jut your chin out, and easily declared that you'd assist him in murdering your ex-boyfriend. It was all very theatrical and forthcoming, like a movie scene, like you were outside of your own body watching yourself agree to his terms and fall prey to the satisfied glow in his eyes. Only when his hands had left your body could you breathe properly again, appreciating the air flowing into your lungs more than you ever have in your life. You were surprised that he allowed you to entice him into keeping you by his side. It doesn't seem exactly customary for killers to involve others into their devious plans, but for some reason, Killmonger was taken with you. And, sure, at first it felt like this grand accomplishment that you'd charmed your way into surviving, but now everything hurts.

Now, you can feel yourself unraveling. Your hands tremble as you stuff your backpack with whatever item of clothing is closest to you, rolling and stuffing anything that you deemed essential in your overwhelmed mind. Killmonger sat quietly on your bed, almost eerily so, watching as you jammed t-shirts into your bag and tried not to break down in tears. He told you to get whatever you needed temporarily since you were, without a doubt, going back to wherever he stays. It couldn't possibly be worse than whatever you had already pictured in your mind, but you went a bit rampant with overpacking, regardless. He watched your every move carefully, no doubt recalling your little headbutt stunt earlier, probably waiting for you to say 'sike' and try to make another run for it. The bruise forming on your forehead and throbbing ache in your lower back was enough to keep your impulse levels as low as possible. He gave you a lot of chances to survive, you would have to be a real idiot to go against him again. Devastatingly, it's looking like you're stuck with him for, quite literally, the rest of your life. Maybe that realization is why your hands can't stop shaking and why you keep forcing down tears. You probably won't see your family again, or your friends, or even your annoying neighbors.

You wished there was background noise to keep you the slightest bit sane - some construction work nearby, the beeping of a garbage truck, music blasting from a house party. The silence was what you couldn't take. Knowing that you couldn't anticipate his next move was daunting. He preferred to watch you struggle with your simple task than to help, eyeing you without losing focus, like he was deep in thought on something. Once your backpack was filled to the brim with random clothes and zipped shut, you turned back around to him.

Killmonger tilts his head. "You ain't getting dressed?" He asks. You look down at your half-naked body and blush. With all the speak of murdering and impending death, you'd rightfully so forgotten that you were still in your bralette and shorts. You caught Killmonger's eyes drifting down to your legs, deliberate in his idle viewing of your exposed skin.

"Can you give me a minute?" You ask. His gaze has yet to drift from your legs, so you shift from foot to foot feeling awkward.

"Leave you in here alone? Nah. You said that you'd stick by my side, this is apart of that package."

"Can you, at least, close your eyes?" You beg more than question. His aura was bothering you, small things about him disturbed you, like the jeering smirk settled on his face as he blatantly checked you out. This was not the kind of guy you could innocently get undressed in front of, not without a crude remark or suggestive comment. He's already made himself quite clear about his sexual drive, though. If he wanted to, he would've already done something. You exhale nervously, awaiting his response.

He rolls his eyes back dramatically before making a big show out of covering his eyes with the side of his gun. "Hurry up." He demands. It's an amusing sight, him foolishly hiding his eyes behind a gun, and if you weren't a stressed, terrified mess you'd probably laugh. Instead, you quickly threw a thin t-shirt over your bralette, jumped out of your pajama bottoms and shimmied on some jean shorts. Your eyes were hesitant to leave Killmonger as you changed, so you were pleasantly surprised to realize that he didn't try and sneak a peek. You feel more comfortable as you jam your feet into your slides.

"Done." You whisper. He moves his gun away and looks down at your new outfit with clear disdain. If he wants to comment, he doesn't, instead he stands up and nods at you.

"Don't even think about getting brave once we step outside." He says like he knows for sure that you'll try and run away. You roll your eyes.

"I'm always brave. I'm not stupid." You clarify.

He hums and nods his approval of your response. "I like that." He responds. His words make your insides twist and thud in a sickening delight and you turn your face down to your feet to avoid his insistent gaze.

He escorts you out of your home, his hand pressed on your lower back as you walk out of the front door. It's an awful feeling, not being shrouded in the darkness around Killmonger, but placed in an orange ray of fluorescent light. The streetlamp and moon combination gave you such a spotlight, more exposed than you could ever feel undressing in front of him, like he could see every bit of you that you tried to hide in the darkness. And you could see him. Really see him. You glanced over all the tiny things that you missed, like his muscle definition showing through his sleeves, his usually free dreads braided to the back of his head, and the unfairly even tone of his brown skin. You had to admit that, despite his shortcomings (you know, like murdering people), he was extremely fit and handsome, definitely the kind of guy you'd go for in any other situation. You're checking him out, you realize in horror. Quickly, you turn away and look towards where he's pushing you towards instead.

The motorcycle is all black and not very distinct, which you guess makes sense given his line of work. Nevertheless, it's something that you could only ever dream of riding. You tighten your backpack around your shoulders, messing with the straps far more than one should, a nervous tick you had picked up in high school. Killmonger steps in front of you towards the bike and leans against it, crossing his legs casually as he addresses you once again. You look around, anxious, hoping that someone could identify you from the street, but no one appeared to be wandering the neighborhood at this time of night. It felt like you two were the only people on Earth, just the sounds of your heavy breathing and anxious toe-tapping filling the silence of the night. He motioned for you to come closer, so you did, standing almost toe to toe with him.

"Does the name Ian mean anything to you?" He asks, catching you off guard. Your eyes must reveal everything he needed to know because he's nodding the next second as if you'd given him a definite answer. "How well did you know him?" He follows his question up.

"Uh. Pretty...well?" You stutter out, unsure if you should disclose on your relationship to someone with a killer. He smirks at the uncertainty wavering in your voice, then nods.

"Thought so."

"He's not caught up in all this, is he?" You ask, concerned.

You've known Ian for the most part of your relationship and he's always been a nice guy, no one you'd ever suspect to be involved in any shady bullshit. Ian would come over and help you clean, even if you didn't ask, making lighthearted small talk and sharing embarrassing stories about your boyfriend. He was your ex's best friend, but also the nicest guy you've ever met. Someone you've come to trust. But, who could you really trust these days?

Killmonger chuckles at your bewildered expression.

"Don't worry about that. We're just gonna pay him a quick visit, okay?" He asks, tone slightly darker than before. You clench your teeth and nod. "You don't speak to him. Not a single fucking word. Got that?" He asks and you nod again.

"Okay. Can I, at least, know what you plan on doing?" You ask. You hadn't seen Ian since the break-up, obviously, but he'd sometimes send you memes about missing you and link you to whatever new music he thought you'd like, which was sadly more than your ex could even do. You liked to think that Ian was just as much your friend as he was your ex's, and at the end of it all, he took Ian with him (as well as the air conditioner) and you were left lonely. You tried to recall that last time you'd been in the same room together.

You were drunk and rambling to him about how bad your relationship was, which usually wasn't something you would tell Ian about, but you were desperate and needed someone to talk to about your problems. You didn't have any super close friends that would immediately come to your aid in a crisis, mostly work colleagues that you passed time with gossiping over meaningless celebrity drama with. You used Ian's t-shirt as a tissue for your tears and, God bless him, he sat there and let you ruin his clothes without any complaints. Well, maybe there was one complaint.

"You know, this was my favorite shirt." He muttered while patting your head. You sat up, embarrassed, and wiped your face with your hands instead. You stared at Ian through puffy eyes and started sputtering all kinds of apologies, which he waved away to pull you back into his favorite shirt. "It's okay, you need it more than I do." He reasoned with a soft chuckle.

"Your friend sucks. You know that, right?" You mumbled into his shirt. He sighed deeply, like he was reflecting on how true that statement really was, then shrugged.

"I know." He said. You pushed away from him, suddenly feeling anger boil inside of you. Ian's dark green eyes widened at your actions and he backed up a little bit.

"Then, why? Why do you put up with him? I mean, you came all the way over here to be with him and he's not even here, he's almost never here! Instead, you find me here looking like this," you gesture to your running mascara and puffy face. "And you just go along with it? C'mon, you can't be this nice. What's wrong with you?" You questioned in an accusatory voice. Ian raised his brows in amusement.

"Should I have left you here alone to drink yourself into a coma and drown in your own tears?" He asked, teasing. You rolled your eyes.

"Yes! I would leave me!"

"You're an idiot."

You scoffed, feeling more tears bubble up. "Way to kick me while I'm down."

"No, idiot, that's not how I meant it. I mean...obviously, I came here to see you. We're friends, you know." He clarified for you and it took your drunken mind more than five seconds to comprehend his words. Then, the tears came back.

"Do you need my shirt again?"

You nodded and jumped back into him. He let out an 'oof' at the impact.

"Come on, we'll get you some water and then watch that stupid movie you like."

He never did answer why he was still friends with your ex, but you were too preoccupied with watching one of your favorite movies to even realize it. Ian's comforting presence cheered you up from your entire breakdown ordeal. He tolerated you reciting almost every line to your favorite movies and helped you make dinner to keep your mind off certain things. If anything was real about your relationship with your ex, it was your relationship with his friend. You glare at Killmonger, wondering what exactly he planned on doing with Ian.

"Don't worry about it." Is all he says. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth. He moves to straddle his bike, pushing the kickstand back with his boot and turning it on. The motorcycle rumbles alive enough to startle you, then settles into a loud purring noise. "Come on."

You hesitate, but eventually, suck up your pride and hop over the back of his growling motorcycle. You straddle the bike behind him, the vibration of the engine shocking you, and hesitantly place your hands on either side of him. You set your feet on the little handles beneath you, but you wonder if your slides are the best shoes for this ride. Before he takes off, he forces your arms to wrap around his midsection.

"You scared to touch me or somethin'? You better fucking hold on." He tells you as he revs the engine and speeds off.

The swiftness at which he took off with catches you off guard and you arms subconsciously tighten around him as you bury your face into his back to protect against the harsh wind. It feels like you're soaring through time and space, clinging to Death, becoming more and more desensitized as the ride progresses. It's initially terrifying, sure, accelerating through empty streets, swerving and making unnecessarily sharp turns. But was it wrong for you to begin to enjoy the feeling of it? You lift your squished face from his back and flutter your eyes open. It almost didn't matter because you all you could really make out were large blurs of lights amidst dark streets.

Killmonger has no respect for streetlights, you notice that right off the bat. Every move he makes is like a spit in the face to the rules of the road, borderline fatal and seriously deranged, but he's not checked for it or even followed. The ride gives you an anxiety like you've never felt before, like you were rising towards the top of a rollercoaster and had no idea when you'd drop. Your quiet squealing had Killmonger laughing to himself, you could feel the vibrations from the laughter through his chest, but it couldn't distract you from your inner crisis. Needless to say, you're at the maximum stressed you've ever been in your life.

And yet, it's the most thrilling, exciting, riveting thing to ever happen to you.

You're so frazzled that you barely noticed the direction he was going, and it definitely wasn't to Ian's house, which you knew for a fact was in the other direction.

You'd remembered arguing with your ex over the GPS when you went to his place for game nights.

When the bike comes to a stop, you're both relieved and disappointed. You're frozen in place, arms still wrapped around Killmonger's stomach despite being parked.

"Baby, you gotta ease up." He says. You slide your arms back to yourself, embarrassed. He looks back at you with a smirk. "You liked that." He says as more of an accusation than a question. You huff and push back, jumping from the high of the motorcycle to the pavement. He follows you.

"If you're implying that I enjoyed that near-death experience, you really are insane." You mutter under your breath. He chuckles at you again, then grabs at the back of your neck, pushing you forward with him to the sidewalk. You trip over your feet only slightly trying to keep up with his long strides and search around frantically for anything familiar. You've only visited Ian a few times in the past, but you knew for sure that this neighborhood was not his. Ian lived in an apartment, not a house, and definitely not such a nice house. The house Killmonger was pushing you towards wasn't extravagant, actually looking pretty lowkey, but it surely wasn't anything Ian would ever own.

But, what would you know?

That is Ian's blue Nissan in the driveway. Maybe he moved.

Killmonger doesn't take his hand from your neck until you've stopped in front of the door. His knocking has enough power to knock down the whole damn door, you're sure of that. You stand there, unsure of everything. Questioning everything. Praying that he wouldn't put his hands on your friend. The door whips open.

His unforgettable green eyes shift to you first, softening from the anger he must have felt at the loud bangs. He takes you in looking both surprised, worried, and anxious. His eyes flicker to Killmonger and it's like something clicks in his mind. You watch it all with horror, his recognition and deductive reasoning working overtime, and for a second you believe that he's going to try and save you from him or run away or something else equally as idiotic. However, he just sighs like he's tired and rubs his forehead. You squint, confused, then glance back to Killmonger.

"Look what I got," Killmonger boasts, referring to you like some meaningless object, then pushes you through the doorway and into Ian's body. You stumble into his arms and instantly feel better once you're in his embrace. But that doesn't last long because Killmonger's words are registering through your brain. "She's more valuable alive than dead. Don't let her leave." He orders, pushing past the two of you.

You push away from Ian. He moves to slam the door shut.

"Is this a fucking joke?"

"What did I say about talking to him?" Killmonger reminds you. You groan your frustration and glare daggers at Ian. He's frowning, trying to avoid your eyes. No matter how hard you're staring at him, he ignores you to look over at Killmonger.

"I told you to leave her out of it." Ian begins. "I had it under control." He says coolly, in a detached voice you'd never suspect he had. It almost brings tears to your eyes to witness someone so different than who you thought you knew, associating with the man who almost killed you.

"You ain't have shit under control! This bitch had it more under control than you, nigga. Fuck being polite!" He yelled, letting the anger show in his voice finally. Ian rolled his eyes. You wanted to reach out and kill him with your bare hands and that must've looked obvious. Killmonger's eyes snapped to yours. "Get over here, now." He orders you.

Before you could take a step forward, Ian's hand snaps out in front of you to hold you back. Disgusted, you push his hand away from you. It was childish, but you were so angry at him, angry at the lying and apparent fake relationship you had. You thought he was the only real one that was there for you, all to find out that he's behind all this nonsense.

"Don't fucking touch me, Ian." You spit out through clenched teeth as you continue walking over to Killmonger. The hardwood floors creaked with every step you took, and it was the small details like that that you tried to focus on to refrain from punching Ian in the face. "Shit! I knew you were too fucking nice. Did you lie about everything? Was any of it real?"

Killmonger sighs but lets you ramble.

"Not now, [Y/N]," Ian says while pulling a torn sheet of paper from his pocket. He waves it in the air. "I got the locations of those operative leaders. Hacked a few security cameras. This is all I got for right now." He hands the flimsy paper to Killmonger who takes it eagerly.

"Man, finally." He smiles, stuffing the paper into his pants pocket.

"Not now? Then fucking when? When I'm dead? Motherfucker." You find yourself still talking to him. Ian finally looks you in the eyes.

"Shut. The fuck. Up." He says. 

You lunge at him, hellbent on clawing his eyes out, but two strong arms wrap around your midsection to keep you back. You struggle against him, jumping and reaching out towards Ian - who, honest to God, looked bored - as much as you possibly could.

"Make me, you lying ass bitch!" You shout. Ian's cold exterior cracks just a little bit at that. "You think I'm fucking scared of you? Killmonger, please, let me fuck him up!"

Killmonger's finding an obvious enjoyment in your recklessness like he usually does. He begins walking backward, dragging you along in his arms away from Ian. "Maybe later. You need to calm down. Come on, let's sit you down." He assists you through Ian's home, but it all blurs for you through your teary eyes. He takes you down a flight of stairs as you're wiping vigorously at you eyes, trying to hide the fact that you actually care about Ian. 

You figure out a little too late that 'sit you down' actually meant 'tie you down in a dark basement'. Your wrists are tied together with zip ties around a wooden chair that could stand to be more comfortable. There's nothing in the basement but chairs, tarp, and guns. The tarp covering the floors almost alarm you, but you have a feeling you know who it's for. As for the guns, they were covering a large portion of the walls but looked like they could easily be covered up with a few picture frames. 

"I'll be back later."

"Isn't this a little much, though? I'm not gonna run." You refer to the ties holding your wrists together. He shrugs.

"Running, escaping, fucking up my partner...it stops everything." He explains before walking back upstairs, leaving you by yourself. 

_Partner_. You scoff. 

He didn't exactly specify when he'd be coming back, but you hoped it'd be quick. Being around Ian for too long might invoke some nostalgia that you just didn't want to feel. Partner. Ian once asked you to kill a spider for him. He hid behind you as you watched The Conjuring. You've watched Ian argue over children shows and bake pastries and dance to mainstream pop music.

You're so lost in the memories that you barely notice the footsteps descending towards you. 

"I'm sorry," Ian's voice startles you. You look up to see him leaning against the steps, arms crossed over his chest. You don't say anything. "This all...looks pretty bad," Understatement of the year. "But I never lied to you."

"Yes, you did." You say. It's that simple. He steps closer to you, into your space so that you could make out his sharp jawline and persistent eyes, that golden brown skin you've always appreciated. 

"Okay. Fuck. I had to lie about some things. I had to."

"I'm over it. Leave me alone." You glower. He sighs with a defeated expression on his face.

"I never wanted this to happen to you. I tried to keep you safe. I don't care what the fuck you think about me, I'll always try and keep you safe."

You gulp down the burning sensation crawling up your throat.

"Shout for me if you want some water or something..." He murmurs. As he turns back towards the staircase, you let the tear fall down your face. He leaves you alone with your destructive thoughts.

You don't know how long you're waiting for Killmonger to get back, but never once do you shout for Ian to bring you anything. Regardless, he comes back downstairs with a water bottle and holds it up to your mouth for you to drink. He ends up staying in the basement with you, sitting on the floor a few feet away from you, not speaking. The silence is deafening. It gives you time to understand his side of the story better, to reflect on his wrongs and figure out which parts he had to fake. He told Killmonger that he didn't want you to be involved, so he's not lying to you about caring about you. His only goal was probably to infiltrate your ex's life and get more information on him, but you were inevitably in the mix. You look down to where he's staring off into nothing. 

"The first time you took me to the beach. Real or fake?" You ask. Ian looks up, surprised. 

"Fake. I had to get you out of the house. We were looking through his stuff." He says. You nod. 

"Our movie marathons?"

"Real." He smiles.

"That time we went shopping and you knocked over that mannequin display and made me run from mall cops for two blocks?"

"Painfully real." He winces at the memory. A tiny smile tugs at your mouth. 

"Oh, so you're naturally that clumsy and embarrassing?"

"Yep. But only my real friends know that." He says fondly. You manage to crack a smile despite this fucked up situation. Above all, you still have someone on your side. It sucks, but his criminal background doesn't matter anymore. He's your friend, always has been. 

"I guess I've felt like you weren't really Hs best friend. Especially, when you got drunk and tried to kiss me." You mention with a smirk. Ian groans and shakes his head.

"I wasn't trying to kiss you. I told you, you had something on your face!"

"And you thought to remove it with your lips? Makes sense." You quip. He rolls his eyes but smiles nonetheless.

"Fuck you." He teases and it feels semi-normal between you again. You were scared to find out what he was doing working with Killmonger, so you avoided that subject altogether and continued on going down memory lane to calm your nerves. That's how you spend the next couple hours or so, discussing the real from the fake and cracking inside jokes when the conversation started getting too real. The door slamming upstairs is the only indication you get that Killmonger is back.

You look from Ian to the top of the basement steps. He bursts through with a pissed off expression, droplets of what looks to be blood splattered on his face. Your eyes widen.

"Ian, get her the fuck up. We're leaving."

"What happened?" Ian asks as he moves around to cut the zip ties off your wrists. 

"Fuck it look like happened, nigga! I took care of it."

You shake your hands and rub at the angry red lines on your wrists once you're free. 

"It's late, she can just stay here with me," Ian suggests. Killmonger looks him up and down, then scoffs.

"Definitely not. C'mon, let's go." He doesn't even wait to check if you're following behind, he just expects it and climbs back up the stairs. You turn and give Ian an apologetic look. 

"I know, I know. I'll check in on you, I promise. Go."

You nod and run off after Killmonger. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This build-up got y'all sleep. It's okay, the next one is better.


	3. Chapter 3

Your hands were shaking, still attached to the lapels of his biker jacket, still even as the motorcycle had stopped in front of an apartment complex. You couldn't stop the erratic movement, your anxiety reaching an unprecedented level that you weren't mentally prepared for, so you just held still for dear life and prayed that he wouldn't think you were as terrified as you were coming across. Anxiety has always been a long-standing battle within you long before you started boxing lessons, way before the relationships and actual hardships of life, you've always had a slight shake to you, a nervous flutter in your stomach to even cross the street. You've always tried to rationalize it, try to reason that whatever was rattling you couldn't possibly be the worst thing in the world. It's not like you were dying. But now it is like that. All of your old rationalizations were proving to be true, every horrible conclusion you've ever made up in your head was true. So, you clenched your trembling fingers to Killmonger's jacket and used your proximity to discreetly wipe the unwelcome tear in your eyes on the back of his jacket. He sighed but didn't move.

"I'm sorry." You whisper against him, so low and croaked that you think he doesn't catch it. You don't know why you say it, you have nothing to be sorry about, but you've been having random anxiety attacks all night. At some point, you believe he'll snap at you for it, probably get so annoyed that he'd just point his gun and finish what he started. Your whispered apology isn't met with wrath, though.  
He grabs your quivering hands in his own and grips you tightly, enough to snap you back into the moment. The contact is unexpected, but you fear it's not unwelcome. He has a reassuring touch when it's not for the intent of murder. You lift your face from his back and stare straight ahead to the dark parking lot full of parked cars.

"Deep breaths," he reminds you as he gently guides your hands back to you. You breathe in, counting the seconds, then breath out, counting the seconds. He lets you calm down and you're not sure why. "You're safe." He says. And when he says it like that you could believe it, for a moment. You bring your hands back to your body and finish with one last long exhale before sliding yourself off his bike. He follows after you.

The air is uncomfortably still. Killmonger doesn't say anything else reassuring to you now that you've come back to yourself, he all but shoves past you, muttering for you to follow him. You have to skip to meet his fast-paced walk, shadowing him as closely as you could without feeling like a creep. Your eyes are permanently marked to the ground as you chased after him. You didn't care to see where he lived much, nor did you care about the neighborhood or the people living in it, all you cared about was keeping up with him and not tripping over your feet. Your lungs constricted uncomfortably as you skipped to match his pace, a painful reminder you clearly weren't as in shape as you wanted to be. Maybe if you'd focused your energy on jogging. Or slept with a gun.

You could make all the excuses in the world, coming up with ridiculous things that you could've done to avoid this situation, but it's all unrealistic. A coping mechanism. There was no stopping this.

You went from gravel to sidewalk to linoleum. The glossy floors reflected a dim fluorescent light from above, flickering on and off, in desperate need of a replacement bulb. You could hear faint conversations from around you, black shoes passing you by, a suitcase on the floor beside a lounge chair - you couldn't bring yourself to look up. Your eyes followed the large black Timbs that graced your quiet, still slightly bloodied kidnapper. You stopped as he did, letting your misty eyes wander from his boots to your demolished slides covering your dirty feet. You were sure the rest of you looked worse for wear, made even worse by your submissive demeanor beside the imposing man to your side. You hoped someone would notice and swoop in like Captain America to save your life. You let yourself get lost in this daydream of freedom before a sudden dinging noise snapped you back to reality.

The elevator had an ugly blue carpet. You hated it. Hated the silence that followed you into the enclosed space. Killmonger's foot tapped to a beat you couldn't hear. The doors couldn't open fast enough.

As you walked across the more glossy linoleum, you wondered what the hell this guy's problem was. His mood seemed to change every other minute, fluctuating between wanting you to be hurt and want you to feel comfortable, something so frustrating that you had half a mind to confront him about it. If he means all of his hurtful words and intense glares, why does his hand search for yours in your frightful moments, squeezing and reassuring? He talks about killing you, about hurting you in ways no one else could, all the while helping you breathe through anxiety attacks, preventing you from flying off the handle. It's sick, sick that he does this to you, and sick that it actually helps you. You wonder what that ulterior motive is.

Killmonger hits an abrupt stop. You bump into his body and move your hands out to steady yourself from falling on the floor. His hands reach out and grab your arm, pulling you back up better than you could've on your own. You finally glance up, meeting with his confused eyes and your face heats up immediately. He's unlocking a large door with a keycard, but his expression towards you is somber yet indifferent.

"You're tired." He comments. You don't have it in you to respond.

He pulls you forward with him all too quickly. You pass by rooms swiftly, only catching half-baked ideas of what each area looked like. A living room with a leather couch set surrounding a television, an open kitchen offset to that with its own island, a dark hallway with a few pictures lining the walls. He pulled you into a room with a large bed. You squint up at him.

"I'm not sleeping on your bed, I don't care how tired I am."

"Well, you sure as hell aren't sleeping on the couch unsupervised."

"I'm not a child."

"Then stop talking back."

You twist your mouth to stay shut before you could say something that could get you killed.

He gestures for you to settle into his king-sized mattress.

"Stay." He orders like he would a pet. You're tempted to growl at him like one, too. His leave his abrupt and you're left sitting stiff as a board on his plush blankets.

The room isn't horrible, not exactly as grimy and disgusting as you imagined as you had packed your backpack.

Your eyes widened. Your backpack had been carelessly tossed aside in your dramatic scuffle at Ian's house, so on top of everything, you didn't have any clothes either. You huffed and kicked your feet at the floor, but even that subtle movement caused exhaustion in you.

Killmonger returned with a tall glass of water which he set on the bedside table. The silence grated at your nerves and you couldn't control your mouth anymore.

"You're really gonna stay up all night to make sure I don't escape?" You ask. He chuckles a bit at your words before moving towards the door.

"As if you're worth the trouble." He mutters. "Try leaving if you want." And with that he closes the door, footfalls fading further down the hallway as you struggle to realize what he meant. He tells you to stay and tells you to go? You jump up and rush to open the door again to confront him, but it doesn't budge. You twist the handle and pull, but nothing happens. He locked you inside.

Perfect.

 

* * *

 

Despite your extreme fatigue and drowsy eyes, you couldn't find it in yourself to unclench your teeth and fall asleep. Your mind was racing through the night all over again, of the possibilities regarding your life and how you could explain this all to the police without getting jail time. You've never felt more uncomfortable in your life, no matter how plush his bed covers were or how surprisingly sanitary he kept his home. Your body ached for rest as your narrow eyes watched the sky brighten through the window. Birds began chirping and you were still awake, shocked still, afraid to move even a single muscle for fear that you might let your guard down. You ground your teeth together and blinked away the dryness of your eyes. There was only one other time where you'd been so out of it.

 

**4 Years Ago**

 

It was a murky fall evening, the kind that caused goosebumps and inspired horror movies, and you were in a state of anxiousness. You'd finally left from your sister's empty apartment and decided to enjoy a night with one of your friends, something so rare that it needed to be addressed in a fifteen-minute discussion via facetime with your sister. She was always the outgoing one, the one who wouldn't hesitate to go on an adventure with only ten dollars in her pocket - somehow she made things work out in a way you were completely clueless too. You preferred to focus your time on the things you deemed important, like school. But that wasn't an excuse as to why you never went to parties or had many friends. Your friend, Mari, dubbed you as her antisocial another half when she was begging for you to go out with her. A few more encouraging words and you were changing into a slightly itchy sweater dress and your favorite leather boots, a look that Mari yelled wasn't sexy enough for a night out.

She left you on a bar stool, twiddling your fingers together and looking around wide-eyed at the frantic environment. It almost disoriented you, the number of people occupying the bar, the booming music that hurt your ears, the drunken shouting. It made you cave into yourself as Mari occupied herself with some guy.

You'd never felt so out of yourself before, so dissociative, blankly watching the evening play out as you scratched your arms beneath the sweater. A grown ass antisocial loser waiting for her friend to give her attention.

You contemplated on calling your sister, but you knew she was with her boyfriend. And who else did you have? Mari? She ditched you fifteen minutes into the night to make out with a guy she claims is bad for her. You felt like a lonely idiot and you got the sense that you might as well get used to it, it's probably going to be like this for the rest of your life. And with that depressing thought, you stood from the bar stool and pushed your way out of the crowded bar. The night was chilly and you regretted not bringing a jacket along, but you stuck it out and began walking towards the nearest bus stop.

The neighborhood wasn't pretty. Sidewalks crackled from wear and tear, liquor stores lined the streets, trash littered in empty lots and abandoned homes. You only thought to call a cab a moment too late, before you felt a looming presence behind you that made every hair on your neck stand. You turned in alarm only to stare down the barrel of a gun, the first one you'd ever seen up close.

It was surreal how easily you'd turned into a child, hands raised and pleading, no instinct for fight or flight, only begging and tears and pathetic whining. His voice was gruff and cracking as he demanded you follow him towards an alleyway. Your heart dropped into your stomach. You'd hear about these things, but never could you imagine being in it, so you were frozen in fear. He was shouting at you, words that all seemed fuzzy in your brain, words that made you want to die instead.

He almost grabbed you, but by some stroke of luck, someone knocked him over, slapping the gun from his hands and fighting so violently that you finally found the voice to shout.

The gunman's face turned bloodied and bruised, his eyes closed in defeat as the man above him continuously delivered scathing blows. He didn't stop until the man was immobile, and only then did he turn to face you, hands dripping with blood, but with the most innocent light brown eyes you've ever seen.

"Are you hurt? Are you okay? Did he touch you?" The man asked, voice filled with worry and sorrow. Despite your constant flow of tears, you shook your head trying to assure him that you were fine.

"I've gotta get home." Was all you could say before turning in the opposite direction and walking as fast as your boots allowed you. You could hear his footfalls behind you.

"Woah, hey, slow down!"

"I have to get home." You muttered, repeating that mantra in your head to try and distract from what almost just transpired. You knew you'd be safe to break down in the comfort of your sister's home, probably in her arms.

"The next bus stop is four blocks down. It's late, let me drive you wherever you need to go, you're in shock." His words came through your ears like velvet, reassuring and confident, but you didn't feel so trusting to mysterious men in empty streets. You used your long sweater sleeves to wipe the mascara run tears from your cheeks and glared at the man.

"I'm fine, leave me alone." You grunted through clenched teeth, positive that he'd leave it at that and let you wallow in self-pity, but he stood there with an unchanging stature.

"Fine. I understand that you don't want to go in some stranger's car after what that sick motherfucker did. But I'm walking with you."

He made no room for discussion as he followed along with you on the slow journey towards the next stop. You didn't get why he was so passionate about not letting you run away, why he even cared so much. Maybe you weren't used to good Samaritans. Either way, you began to feel extremely bad about how rude you were treating him when he basically saved your life not five minutes ago. He walked beside you and you couldn't help but keep staring up at him, periodically. His eyebrows were very thick and expressive, like his attitude, and his eyes were so naturally wide and innocent looking, you'd never expect his personality from his face alone. You could make out the beginning of an intricate tattoo on the left side of his neck, disappearing beneath his black t-shirt. Your eyes traveled to the dried blood on his knuckles and you blushed from embarrassment. He didn't notice your staring and if he did, he didn't speak on it. You gulped.

"I'm..." You started, voice croaking from abused vocal chords. He turned, looking down at you with a small reassuring smile.

"I know. You don't have to speak to me, okay? You don't owe me anything for this, I just want to make sure you get back home safe. This isn't a good neighborhood, assholes like that are around every corner." He said as if what he did hadn't changed your life.

"I do have to speak to you." You say, surprising yourself. His eyebrows do a little twitch that makes you feel so warm and safe. "You saved my life. Thank you." You whisper. He just smiles.

You walk side by side until you get to the bus stop and you both sit down on the wooden bench. The silence is extremely uncomfortable for you, hanging over your head, making you feel worse as time passed by. You wanted to turn and say something to him, but every time you started to speak you closed your mouth and let the silence linger on. He noticed your struggle and nudged you with his shoulder.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

You shrugged. "I don't know. I wish I didn't freeze up like that. I wish I didn't look so pathetic."

"You're not pathetic." He said too easily like he's known you forever. "And you never have to feel pathetic." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a shiny, metal knife. It was so small and compact, but lethal looking. "Ever had one of these?" He asked. You shook your head. He flipped it so expertly in his hands, an ease that only came from years of practice. You watched, mesmerized. "It's my favorite. Really does some damage when you know how to use it." You were too distracted to dissect his words, eyes focused on how he twists and turned the knife before jutting it out to you.

"But...I don't...I wouldn't," you stuttered once he offered the knife to you.

"You could. Come on, take it. How powerful do you feel right now?" He asked.

"I never feel powerful."

You pouted down at yourself. It was a harsh reality, never feeling strong enough, and to even admit something so hurtful aloud brought a mist to your eyes. He took your hand in his, the contact shocking you. He slid the knife handle carefully in your hands, forcing you to grip it as hard as you could. The metal was icy and it tingled in your palm.

"What about now?"

Your bus pulled up in front of you before you could answer. The stranger smiled as he gestured to the bus. You stood up on shaky legs and he walked you to the door. But you couldn't end it there, you didn't want to leave him so soon, you didn't care about the bus so much anymore. You grabbed him before he could leave and wrapped your arms around his midsection, effectively trapping both his arms to his side in a very awkward position, but he laughed through it and accepted your affection.

"Thank you...for everything. You never told me your name." You say as you step onto the bus platform. He smirks.

"Neither did you."

The bus door closed on your conversation, but you were too shy to yell for the driver to let you finish speaking. Instead, you settled for a sad wave goodbye from behind the doors and he did the same, an abrupt end to your instant connection. You made it home fine and you thought about everything that happened all night, not even getting a wink of sleep. You thought of how lucky you were and how nice the stranger was. Most of all, you thought of how he made you feel, with your hands clutched around the tiny butterfly knife all night long, feeling in control, feeling safe. You cursed yourself for weeks for not getting his name.

Fast forward one year later and you were moving in with him.

You pushed down the sudden fond memories of your boyfriend, trying desperately to forget that once upon a time you would've never allowed any harm to come his way. It was an explosive, spontaneous, fast-burning love, something that even now could still make you blush like a schoolgirl. You'd never been in love with anyone like you'd been in love with your boyfriend, never thought you'd ever find love at all. You went through life without many friends, neither popular nor invisible, there..existing without many purposes, only a few close friends. You never expected someone as beautiful as him to ever pick someone like you, someone so mediocre and boring in comparison. He made you feel like you were existing for a reason, and for that, you'd grown this undying loyalty to him - solely because you weren't convinced that anyone else would ever see you as anything more. He saw you for so much more. You thought that you would easily die for him. And now.

Three heavy knocks snap you out of your thoughts, jolting you upright.

"Get up!" Killmonger's voice booms through the door, making you roll your eyes. "Come one, let's go!" He calls out again, basically forcing your exhausted body to kick the covers away and slouch to the door, which was now open. Killmonger was already dressed in average streetwear, some sweatpants and a jean jacket, smelling of soap and faint cologne. He sneered down at you like you were a speck of dust in his cleanly world, then laughed.

"Didn't get enough rest?" He questions, and it makes you want to hide your drooping face in his pillows. You regret not falling asleep last night, now you have to deal with a psychopath so early in the day.

"What do you want?" You ask, impatient. He raises one brow, then smirks.

"I've gotta handle some business, so I might be gone all day." He says.

"Lucky me." You mutter.

"But don't get any ideas, Ian's here." At that, you stand up straight, hesitantly trying to peek down the hallway. "It's cute how much you trust him, despite the fact he's been lying to you since day one."

"He had a good reason." You find yourself defending Ian, feeling as though you're the only one who could bad-mouth him. "He's naturally a loyal person, I wouldn't expect anything different."

He huffs.

"So naive." The comment strikes a nerve in you.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?"

The smirk he sends your way as he backs down the hallway is intimidating, but you keep your glare focused on him until he was out of your sight. The nerve of this man.

A little step towards the kitchen, you found your former friend sitting on the island stool, a guilt-stricken expression on his sharp features as he held a plate of waffles. You glared at him, remembering how harsh and depressing last night was, how you basically found out that you know nothing about anything that happened in your life for the last four years. 

"Woah, did you even get any sleep?" 

And that's the first thing that comes out of his mouth. 

"Fuck, I didn't mean it like that. That was... a horrible place to start." He scratches his neck awkwardly. You clear your throat. "I made you waffles." He lifts the plate in his hands towards you. "And I went to Trader Joes and got that bougie ass syrup you love, you know the one in the glass bottle." 

"You'd have to be really fucked in the head to think I'd forgive you just because you made me breakfast." You snarl, hoping that your voice invoked fear into him. But, sadly, he knew you too well. He sat the plate on the counter and picked up your favorite brand of syrup, pouring it gratuitously over the steaming Belgian waffles. Your mouth watered instantly.

"Did you get whipped cream?"

He nods, finally smiling as you groan and move to sit beside him, instantly shoving your mouth with waffles pieces.

"This doesn't mean shit." You garble out with a mouth full of pastry. 

"Or does it mean everything?" He asks with a smirk. You shove his shoulder, but you don't let his snide comments stop you from absolutely devouring your waffles and making him give you the whipped cream can to spray directly in your mouth. You finished in minutes, uncaring of how sloppy and ugly you looked when it was all over. When you turned around, Ian was smiling at you. You rolled your eyes.

"You're so fucking annoying."

"Love you, too, apple-head." 

You sigh, staring off to the door of which you were sure Killmonger left out of. "So, what? Every time that killer nigga leaves, you're gonna babysit me?" You ask.

"You should be glad it's me and not anyone else he keeps around. I actually care about you." He reminds you, but you're still not one hundred percent sold on that, so you scoff and look away from his stupid green eyes. 

"All men do is lie!" You shout. And the more you think about it, the more it becomes true. Every man you've ever met or got involved with was a liar. "I hate being here! I hate that this is my life now! I hate not having control over situations like this, Ian! I hate feeling so fucking weak, so powerless." You confess. Without hesitation, Ian pulls you into his arms. Briefly uncaring of how disastrous last night was or how betrayed you felt, you returned his bear hug readily.

He pulls back slightly. "I'm sorry I can't get you out of this. I wish I could, you know I would do whatever it takes, but it's more complicated than that right now." He tries to comfort you with another embrace but you step out of it.

"I'm trying to understand this whole...whatever the _fuck_ is happening. I'm trying to be as reasonable as possible despite the fact that you're an actual son of a bitch. I'm trying. But, right now, I want to fucking punch you in the face." You admit through clenched teeth. Ian sighs.

"Okay, do it."

"Huh?"

"I should've told you from the jump that he wasn't a good guy. I should've made up some bullshit as to why you had to leave him, anything to get you out of this situation. I should've done everything in my power to drive you away from him because I saw how miserable you were getting with him and I saw how much he didn't care. I could've saved your wasted time in that relationship! Doesn't that make you mad? That I chose not to do anything?"

Your hands balled into fists.

It was obvious how much Ian wanted you to hit him, you could see the glint in his eyes, the same one you notice when he's done something wrong. But getting you out of the picture wasn't in his job description. If you wanted to leave earlier, you could've.

"You can't tell me you haven't thought about punching me before." He jokes, though the delivery is dry and laced with worry. You shake your head.

"I haven't. Not until last night." You admit. His eyes shift downwards.

"Do your worst." He prompts, but you have other things on your mind.

"Ian, why didn't you do anything?"

He pauses. "What?"

"Why didn't you force me out of the relationship? You said you could've. Why didn't you?" You inquire, genuinely curious. 

Ian shrugs. "I don't know. Just hit me."

"No! Answer my question, you're the one who brought it the fuck up." You try to catch his shifty eyes but they're looking everywhere but you.

He's quiet for a long moment. "It was easier to have you around distracting him." He says lowly, and usually, that would've sufficed had it been anyone but you. You knew Ian's tells - the way his voice lowered instantly, his eyes only focusing on your nose instead of your eyes, his fingers tapping impatiently on his pant leg. 

"Fine. You don't have to tell me, then. I just think it's fucked up that you still have the nerve to keep secrets from me when I literally have enough information on you to put you in prison."

"You'd never put me in prison, you know I'm too pretty for that." He says, lightening the mood. 

"You think you're too pretty for _most_ places. And you're not. You're basic." You crack back like a reflex, then curse yourself for not staying angry at him. 

"I'm literally a snack, but okay." He smiles, showing off his bright Colgate smile and the tiny set of dimples in his cheeks. You huff.

"If you're a snack, bitches gon' be starving." You lie. 

Ian's always been handsome, probably the most beautiful man you've ever been associated with, but he's a true narcissus and there's no way you'd ever feed that self-loving demon inside of him with compliments. He'd hold it over your head for eternity. Besides, if he didn't have you to humble him from time to time, his head would never leave the clouds. Alternatively, if you didn't have him to gas you up over small things, you'd probably be walking around with a cartoon-ish, dreary cloud wherever you went. 

"Still scared to admit that I'm the full package?"

"A package that no one ordered."

"Such a hater!" He pushes you back a step and you shove him back. A yawn forces its way to your mouth, stopping your next sentence. Ian frowns. "You really didn't get any sleep, did you?" You shake your head. He groans and drags you back down the hallway. 

"Please, get some rest. I'm here, not him. There's nothing to be worried about." He says.

"Alright. I'll sleep, but --" you bite your lip, cutting yourself off.

"But what?" He presses.

"When I wake up, I want you to tell me about Killmonger. Everything you know. Everything." You reiterate. Ian's eyes widened momentarily before settling back into a look of false calm. He nods, hesitantly.

"I can't promise it'll be everything."

You give him a look, which he rolls his eyes to.

"I'll see what I can do." He mutters. "Now, get some sleep. I'll be just out here, breaking into this nigga's Netflix account."

"That's one pro of being a criminal, I guess." You say through another yawn. He pats your head softly and leaves you alone to sleep. You're passed out cold as soon as your face meets the pillow.

**Author's Note:**

> Got any comments? I need validation! lol


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